


Lapses of the Predetermined Future

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-22
Updated: 2004-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:15:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1628627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darcy/Bingley pre-slash. Darcy's thoughts on women, men, and finding just the right person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lapses of the Predetermined Future

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Cygny

 

 

I have been a man of age for several years now, and I am considered a man of means. I am a gentleman, and I have been told by several men and women that my looks are not fully hopeless. Yet I remain unmarried.

People often ask me the reason behind it all, and each time I offer them the explanation that I have simply not found the right kind of a person I would wish to settle down with. Upon hearing that, the most annoying of them will insist I am merely too picky and search for that unattainable picture-perfect woman who simply does not exist in the real world. I reply by telling them that they could not be farther from the truth, but only the very rare of them will believe me. Such is the way with simple minds, I suppose.

Ever since I was a boy, I was told that I would marry my cousin. As such, the notion did not make me feel appalled because I knew it had a lot to do with property and everything to do with society. Marriage is business, I was told, and for a long time I considered it the ultimate truth. However, the moment I first saw my dear bride to be -- I think I was thirteen -- I promised myself that I would never give that woman half of my properties. She was a bore and much too plain, and so sickly and pale that after dinner I whispered to my father a question asking if she was about to die of some illness. He gave me a stern look and at that moment I knew I had said exactly the wrong thing. From then on, I refrained from commenting on my bride, her looks or her personality, but I decided to keep the promise I had made myself. I would not marry that woman even if I were forced to do so by a whole army of men.

It was Wickham who first asked me an honest question of what kind of a woman I should want to marry, were I given the chance to choose my own lady. I was sixteen at the time, and I had given the subject some thought for a couple of years already. I do not remember quite how I put it -- not the exact wording -- but I remember him commenting on it, telling me that there was probably no such woman in the whole world.

"Maybe you need to travel overseas," he had then said. "They say exotic lands carry exotic women."

I remember that the idea of an exotic woman felt a little intriguing at first, but I soon discarded the plan to travel because it seemed like too much work over such a little thing. Finding a wife was not supposed be a chore, I thought.

When I was seventeen, he repeated the question. It was a hot summer day and we were spending it by the nearby field, not very far from the house. The grass was bright green and soft under my back and the sun was shining heavily down from straight above us. I remember marvelling at the sky's cloudlessness.

"What kind of a woman would you wish you marry?" he had asked, and I had given him a look, shading my eyes with my arm.

"I wish for my companion to be just that; a companion. I could never tolerate a weak being who thinks herself below me, let alone respect one. I want there to be fire and sparkles, and if there is not at least one argument every week I will not bother with the person at all. Can you see me with someone who would allow me to step all over them? I cannot see it myself."

"A woman of fire and sparkles. Is that so?" he had repeated my words, and I had kept my eyes closed, telling him that yes, that was exactly what I had meant.

He had not pushed the matter any further, and soon we were back to lying in the grass, looking at the sky.

* * *

A few years after that, it was not Wickham who asked me the question but I myself. When I finally understood my answer, it felt strange but right, because I knew the answer had always been there, hidden somewhere. I simply had not known where to look for it.

I wanted someone to be able to stand up against me if the situation called for it. So far no woman had managed to achieve that, even when I did not feel I was asking for too much. When I felt angry and I showed it, Wickham was the only one to open his mouth and voice an objection to whatever it was I had stated. Another person was my father, but it was expected of him.

I had read about it. About other possibilities that were not considered healthy; possibilities that were sinful and wrong and lead to eternal damnation. I had read about all the consequences, but none of them interested me as much as the one thing that was said to lead to them. There was a word for it, but I thought it rather crude.

Even when I had never thought it to have a name, I had always figured it was there, inside me somehow. It was not a revelation, and it did not change me. If anything, it only made me understand myself better. Of course, even when I knew what people called it, I did not think of going to Wickham and asking him about it. I would have been a fool to do so, because he had always spoken of women as if they were the reason of his existence. And, gladly, I would let them be. I was merely fascinated by the possibility. Wickham was the only one to stand up against me. He was a man. Perhaps it was a man I was supposed to look for, and not necessarily a woman?

* * *

Should I worry that I have never been in love? Is there something wrong with me when I can only say that I merely admire the looks of some women I see hovering around me? There has never been anything beyond that. Mild interest, perhaps, but never anything I could sincerely call infatuation.

There is nobody to whom I can talk about this. I know Wickham would not understand, and I do not see any reason to confuse him any further with my conflicting thoughts and emotions, and the lack thereof. In simple words, I truly am alone in my little world inside my head.

Sometimes, when I attend a ball, I hear people speaking of it. They are disgusted by it, horrified by it, and appalled by it. When I hear someone mention it under their breath, the counterargument is immediately there. The love of a good woman, they say. It will change everything, perform miracles, and it will magically make everything all right again. If someone suggested me that I need this 'love of a good woman', I would not think of my situation. I would think of a man who has erred in his ways and has found himself in the bed of a questionable woman, possibly one that desires payment after the performances of imitated love. I would not apply the need to someone who merely craves equality of mind and happens to find it in a man instead of a woman. I do not think this in any way equals 'the love of a bad woman'. Why bother adding women to the equation at all?

At one time, I was certain that I was looking for a woman who would be ready to treat me as an equal. I have never wanted to be a god, a semi one, a demi one or any other one. I do not want the woman to think of me as one. Later, I thought that since there had never been a woman who would have the desired qualities, it had to be a man I was looking for. I had never been infatuated by a woman, so it seemed logical. However, I soon realized that I did not become infatuated by men, either. Not in the way I would have hoped.

The question remained unanswered; who was the person I was looking for?

There is Charles Bingley. He is pleasant to the eye and a light and friendly personality, which is something so very different from Wickham's personality, but I am beginning to think that I enjoy it a lot more than Wickham's. He is more honest and does not seem to hold something back the way Wickham does. Also, Wickham has shown some signs of not being fully trustworthy, which is something I despise in a man. In fact, if one cannot be trusted, one should not be called a man at all.

I have sometimes amused myself with the idea of Bingley and I together. This has happened mostly during strong inebriation when I am the least critical towards people and the most open for experimenting on new things. I have never told him about it, of course. The man would say I was insane, and I am not quite sure if he would not be right. Not because I find the idea of the two of us together highly unpleasant, but because he really is not very different from women. Yes, he is a man and I do see him as such, but he does not have the strong personality I search for, and I find it difficult, almost impossible, to see him standing up against me if ever there were an argument. He is a nice young man, but generally speaking much too mild and meek and just plain nice. There is no sparkle or feistiness in him.

Yet I do like him, and during my occasional lapses into slight insanity, I am rather fond of the idea of seeing if there is some feistiness hidden inside him. Clearly, I need to attend more balls and meet new people. I am sure these contemplations will not result in anything good.

* * *

"Upon my word, Darcy, I do think you have lost your mind!" he says, and I have the sudden urge to laugh at his expression. His eyes are gazing down straight into mine without a flinch, but he is swaying slightly from one side to another, and I would not be all that surprised if he were to fall down onto the floor during the next few moments. I urge him to sit down but he only continues swaying and looking down at me.

I know I may have drunk a little too much, but I also know that _he_ has definitely drunk too much. I am the one who is still more or less capable of restraining myself, despite the few lapses that are resulting in those queer expressions on Bingley's face. He is the one who is about to lose balance; the one who is looking more a woman than many a woman I have met during the past week. In fact, at this moment he seems to be more a woman than his sisters are. How can I not laugh at him?

He is offended, I notice. I should not have laughed, but what is done is done. I see him hovering above me, trying to stay in balance, and I see him taking a few hesitant steps before he falls down, over me, and his expression of drunken anger is close to mine, and I feel his hands up on my collar, pulling at it.

"I adore women," he says, his eyes ablaze, but he does not seem so much furious as he seems insistent. The words are clear despite the slight slur that follows them. "Why would I not adore them?" he asks, and I push him away from me. I laugh at him, at the situation, at myself. He looks confused as he scrambles up and takes a seat in the chair while I remain on the floor with my half-empty glass on my left. I look at it for a moment, surprised by the fact that it has not fallen over yet, what with Bingley and I nearly having a fist fight.

"Forget I said anything," I say, and I hope he leaves the subject be. A few moments ago it seemed like a perfectly normal thing to bring up, but now when I can see where it will result, I can see I had been wrong. "I fear I am much too drunk."

I climb up, picking up the glass and taking it to the table.

"Good night," I say, and start heading towards the door. "I am sure you can find your way to your room."

* * *

I find I cannot sleep, and it is all due to the fact that I was careless. There is trust between Bingley and me, and I have learned to trust it, but at times like these I can see that there are still things that the trust simply will not tolerate. I curse myself for a moment for voicing my thoughts, then remind myself that self-pity is one of the things I hate about people.

There is a knock, and I know it is Bingley, but before I can tell him to come in, he already has, and he walks towards my bed in his nightshirt, and I can see his is no longer swaying.

"I fear I am the one much too drunk," he offers, and I cannot say that I disagree with him.

"Go back to bed," I say, turning my back towards him. I am not angry and I do not wish to give him the impression that I am, but to be honest, I would rather not handle this situation right now. Perhaps in the morning when we are both sober again and can discuss things like civilized people over breakfast table.

"I am not your errand boy, you know," he says. "You cannot tell me what to do as you please."

I smile at the words. There is some strength and pride inside him after all, I notice.

"Then stay here. As long as you will not drag me out of my bed, I shall be quite content. Do try to be silent, though. After all, I am trying to get some sleep."

He sits down on my bed, pushing the mattress down under his weight, and he is pulling at my arm, urging me to move over onto my back. I have no idea what he is doing or why, but I find myself slightly amused by the unexpected visit.

"I do like women," he says as if he needs to say the words first to fully believe them.

"I do not," I say, keeping my eyes closed. "Most of them think too highly of me and my money, and I find it intensely annoying."

"But surely you like some women, do you not?" he continues, and I cannot help smiling.

"Your sisters are not fully intolerable. And I like my baby sister. Is that enough for you?"

"No."

"Good. Now could I please be excused from this odd conversation? I should so wish to get some sleep before morning."

Despite my words, I am not feeling tired or sleepy. In fact, I feel more awake than I did a couple of hours ago when the two of us were having a casual conversation over some brandy. The room is quiet but for Bingley's breathing, and mine, and I listen to the silence.

"Why would you want to go and search for a man instead of a woman?" he asks, breaking the silence, and I wish he had not done it. I was getting used to the silence and rather enjoyed it. "It is not generally acceptable."

I open my eyes and look at him.

"I am not the general audience. And I am not saying that I would go and search for a man _instead_ of a woman. I was merely saying that the qualities I look for in a person are more commonly found in men. For example, I do not wish to engage in a conversation with someone who is looking at me dreamily and takes every word I say as if they were the ultimate truth, or someone who will sob every two minutes. Most women do that. _However_ ," I stressed the last word, "if I find those qualities in a man, he is also out of the question. I look for a person who clearly has a strong personality, and preferably a strong will, as well."

I look into his face, trying to see the expression. He seems to be pondering on the things I just said.

"Oh," he then says, and the minimalism of it compared to my verbose explanation seems rather comical. "It almost makes sense," he continues, and it feels like a victory.

"How nice for you. Now, do you have anything else you might want to ask me, or can those questions wait until morning?"

He seems to have something on his mind but for some reason resists the urge to say it. I raise a brow, and he lowers his eyes.

"Have you ever considered me?" he then asks, and the words are not what I was expecting to hear.

"In all honesty, yes."

"You have?"

"Yes, but I have come to the conclusion that you are much too friendly and nice a person. I look for a person with more substance -- not that you would not have substance, mind you, just not the kind I am looking for -- and I fear you are more a friend to me than a potential lover."

"Oh," he says again. "Is that a compliment or have you just insulted me?"

"It is," I say, smiling.

"Good."

He pauses for a moment, looking like he is about to say something more, but then he stands up and walks towards the door. Standing in the doorway, he turns to look at me.

"I think you should reconsider. You know, me. Have you once seen me look at you dreamily? Have you once heard me say you are a person above everyone else?"

I laugh.

"No."

"Exactly," he says. "Now, good night to you."

He leaves the room and I find sleep is definitely out of the question.

 

 

\--The End--

 

 

 


End file.
